Intoxicated
by Reckless Avarice
Summary: Matthew's always been the one helping, so when the roles are reversed, Alfred's completely clueless. - Alfred, Matthew; implied UsUk. I don't own Hetalia.


**Series:** Axis Powers Hetalia  
**Characters:** America (Alfred F. Jones), Canada (Matthew Williams)  
**Words:** 1,191  
**Summary:** Matthew's always been the one helping, so when the roles are reversed, Alfred's completely clueless.

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"Alfie~!" The door swung open to Alfred F. Jones's room as his brother, Matthew Williams, came stumbling in before falling flat on his face with a sigh of contentment. "Your bed is so comfy," the violet-eyed man informed Alfred. "It's like a bed of maple leaves fresh from a tree!"

Turning on the light on his nightstand, his sleep disturbed abruptly, the blue-eyed quarterback retrieved his glasses from their case, wiped the lenses out of habit, and put the spectacles on. "Eh, Mattie? Y'okay, dude?" Alfred's eyebrows furrowed together, completely baffled on why his brother was here and _why was he slurring his words and oh shit is he wasted oh God oh GodohGodohGod—_

"U-um, Matthew?" Alfred questioned hesitantly. "Did you, ya know, dri-"

"Oh man, Alfred!" Matthew interrupted him, flinging his arms outwards enthusiastically, "you should'a seen how the party at Francis's was going on! There was a shitload of wine on the floor and Gilbert brought beer and Antonio brought some spicy Spanish drink and whooh! Never combine all three and try t'drink them. Francis bet me a twenty to put maple syrup in it and now I'm twenty bucks richer." A proud smile crossed his lips and he rested against the comforter of Alfred's bed.

_Fuck, he did drink!_ Alfred thought to himself, panicking slightly—scratch that; _this was Code Red panicking_.

_Okay, okay, no need to panic - what does he do when I'm like this?_ The sober one of the two forced himself to think back to the recent episode of his intoxication, trying to bring out the remedies that Matthew put forth to keep his hangover at a minimum.

"_Arthur's gonna kill me," Alfred slurred, a bottle of whiskey sitting empty on the coffee table and his phone opened to his and Arthur's text messages to each other._

_Matthew set down a bowl of water and a washcloth next to the bottle, taking the bottle by the neck and headed towards the garbage can. "Why's that?"_

_Matthew's brother glanced back at the table. "Where's bottle?" he asked, the words slurring together in a way that worried the violet-eyed Canadian about Alfred's health._

"_It was empty, so I threw it away," the Canadian answered back calmly, coming back from the garbage can and sitting next to Alfred, setting down a damp washcloth (in case he needed to clean up later on) onto the table and a small trash can by Alfred. "Here – sit up and drink this." He helped his brother sit up and handed him a can of Coca-Cola. "It has vodka in it," he lied. At this new piece of information, Alfred quickly popped open the can and began drinking it quickly._

"_Slow down, slow down!" Matthew told him firmly, taking away the can of soda from Alfred. "Drink it slowly, alright?" After waiting a few seconds, he handed back the soda to his brother. "Anyways, you said Arthur was gonna kill you." He crossed his feet on the coffee table, leaning back against the couch. "Why's that?"_

"_Check my phone," Alfred slurred, pointing a finger to the table, meaning to point to his phone but missing by a foot._

_Matthew leaned forward, taking the iPhone off the table and glancing at the recent messages Alfred sent Arthur._

**I sswear idjs fdidndt' do the dohting**_, was one message._

**Is jiw I'dm ntoto dirnkigng**_, was another._

_Arthur's response was straight to the correct conclusion, stating in capital letters, _**YOU BLOODY TWAT YOU /ARE/ DRINKING**_._

**Noepep**_, was Alfred's reply, and the conversation ended there._

"_I lied to him," Alfred mumbled, sounding near-tears. "Do you think he'll break up with me?"_

_Matthew bit back a smile of amusement at this inquiry, setting down his brother's phone and telling him, "No, he won't. He did the same thing when he went to visit his brother in Scotland and he texted you about him being Alice and him being in Wonderland." The violet-eyed Canadian chuckled. "He still hasn't remembered that and I don't have the heart to tell him yet."_

"_You're the best, Mattie," Alfred sang, leaning against Matthew and snuggling into his shoulder, forgetting about the soda on his lap, which was currently spilling its contents onto his jeans._

_Before Alfred could notice his jeans were soaked in caffeinated beverage, Matthew quickly took it off and set it on the table, getting the blanket hanging on the back of the couch and setting it on Alfred's lap._

_And Alfred didn't notice, Matthew realized, because a few seconds later, a soft snore escaped his lips, nor did he notice Matthew stay there the whole time his cousin was asleep, watching hockey on the television and a documentary on National Geographic about polar bears._

"Uh, uh, Mattie," Alfred began, poking his brother's shoulder, "get up, bro. C'mon."

"No~!" Matthew sang in response. "Sitting up's for losers."

"You must be a professional loser then," Alfred muttered, using force to push the Canadian into an upright position. "We gotta get you a drink, dude. A cola, a'right?" He helped his cousin to stand up, supporting him by an arm around his waist. The two walked towards the kitchen, Alfred opening up the fridge and taking out a soda.

"It has whiskey in it," the quarterback reassured his brother, opening it up for him and handing it to said brother.

"It doesn't," Matthew replied in a sure tone, but taking the drink anyways and began drinking it slowly.

"It does!" Alfred repeated, laughing slightly nervously with an attempted-assuring expression on his face.

"That's a lie," Matthew replied, his posture changing from about-to-fall-over-flat to perfectly stable, setting down the soda and brushing his sweater off, a smirk of amusement crossing his lips. "Also is me being wasted. I was just testing you."

…

"YOU WERE FUCKIN' TESTING ME?! I SWEAR ON MY FOOTBALL TROPHIES, MATT, I THOUGHT YOU WERE WASTED. WHAT THE HELL? NOW I JUST WASTED A QUALITY CAN OF SODA ON A FUCKIN' LIE THAT'S JUST GREAT NOW I GOTTA BUY MORE 'CAUSE THE NUMBER OF CANS IS ODD."

The Canadian laughed wholeheartedly, the humor in his brother's outburst coloring his cheeks pink as he patted Alfred's back. "It's alright!" he managed to get out. "At least you have an idea of what to do if your little Artie drinks a little too much, alright?"

Alfred stopped fuming, taking the moment to think over the violet-eyed man's words. Taking care of Arthur? Had Hell gone cold? He voiced the preposterousness of this action to Matthew.

"Why take care of him? 'Cause when you do," he proceeded to tap Alfred's chest with his right index finger twice, "he'll see you as a mature boyfriend and that'll score you some points towards when you do the thing."  
"What thi—_oh_." Alfred's face began to turn various shades of red before he managed to stutter out, "Why're you caring about that?!"

Matthew smiled knowingly like a parent towards their child. "Because in the end, it will sure as Hell be worth it." And on that note, the hockey-loving Canadian began to walk towards his room.

"Wai-wait, Matt! _HOW THE _FUCK _DO YOU KNOW THAT_?!"

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**Review?**

**~ R.A.**


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